


18 To Life

by xoxambrosiax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 17:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17565140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoxambrosiax/pseuds/xoxambrosiax
Summary: Rose Shelly is an 18 year old who is fed up with her life. She's decided to end it all, but is leaving a memoir as an explanation. This is also on Wattpad.





	1. The Past Marks The Future.

Hello. My name is Rose Shelley.

If you're reading this, you're probably thinking about how much of a copycat I am. After all, there already is a story about a beautiful girl, a clever girl who left behind cassette tapes with blackmail on those who wronged her and paved the way to her suicide. A girl who was pursued by the popular boys.

A girl who was friends with the popular kids. A girl who was wronged by these very same people. 

But what about when the story is different? What about when it's not about a beautiful girl who was betrayed by her friends?

What happens when the story is about an average looking girl who was never betrayed by anyone, because she was never important enough to even look at? 

That's my story. So sit down, grab something to snack on, and read if you want. I don't have anything to keep you here, but if you read this, maybe you'll learn something new about yourself. 

So like I mentioned before, my name is Rose Shelley. Welcome to my blog.

 

I want to say that everything started four years ago when high school began, but unfortunately, this story is longer than I would like. Everything started the year I was forced to come to this country. Let me take you back to a simpler time: 2005.

A young girl crying in her grandmother's arms; two young children being placed on a plane, hand in hand. I had been happy with the ones i loved and in one day, I was being taken away from those very same people: to go somewhere far away. I was too young to understand that it was to help us, and I didn't want to leave. But I was too young. Helpless. That doesn't mean that I didn't try to stay.

I vaguely remember a stewardess, who upon seeing me in tears, picked me up, held me, and calmed me down. She then taught me how to put the seat belt on and how to take it off. 

She unbuckled it, probably believing that I would place it back, but I didn't. Instead, I looked at the walkway, and all of the people boarding, and once I saw an opening, I ran as fast as I could. I ran out of the plane, into the airport looking for my family. My heart was racing, and the air was cool against my skin. I thought I felt someone behind me, and I thought it was a cop. 

The memory fades once I get to glass doors, and starts again in a dark room with a yellowish tint and a large bunny in the corner. I remember seeing my brother and laughing at something he said. I also think I remember a woman at a desk, though that part of the memory is less trustworthy. The memory fades out once again, and I'm back home. My father calls the house, and I'm on the phone with him. He tells me to stay on the plane this time, or there will be consequences. I feel nervous and my heart is beating. I remember a sense of dread wash over me. I think I answer back a "yes, sir", but I don't know. 

I remember a baby doll, and her bottle. A pink lid and a white substance inside. In another bottle, there was an orange substance. I remember a bag in which all of her things were placed. The memory fades once again. The next once is of my aunt and me in the plane together. The seats were blue with green drawings on them. My aunt is holding my hand, I think. I look out of the window next to me, on the left.

The memory fades. The last one is me in what I now know is an apartment. My first house here. A man I know to be my father, my brother, and two strangers are there. Those strangers turn out to be my eldest brother, and my mother. They hug me, I think. The memory fades away.

This is what I remember of my trip to this country. This is what I think is my memory. But I can't be sure. After all, memories are fickle, and rarely are they the same as they were the first time you experienced them.

The details may have changed, but the plot of them stayed the same. Still, that was when everything started. An innocent beginning to a dubious end. I was a happy child...for the most part. I had parents who loved me (though I saw one more than I would've liked to, and the other less), two brothers who played with me ( for a time, at least), and I had a wonderful home. Or at least, that's how it would seem. The truth was different though. Very different. My father was a changeable man.

One minute he was a calm and happy person, the next...a raging lunatic. But the levels grew as time passed. It was like as we got older, he got worse. 

He was also the person I spent almost all of my time with when I was younger, since my mother worked and my brothers didn't want to hang out with their annoying little sister. School was no different. While I always had one person to talk to at the beginning, they always left. 

And I was alone. Now I want to make it clear that I'm not blaming anyone...at least not anymore. But in order for me to tell my story, and tell it well, I need to cover everything.

Why is any of this important? Well, the first story covers fear. More specifically, the first time I remember being afraid of my father. And the second? Loneliness. The loneliness a young girl felt because her brothers wouldn't play with her.

Because her mother wasn't around. And because the only person that she was constantly surrounded by was unpredictable. This of course, happened over the years, slowly building up inside, while I continued to smile. I was a much stronger child than I am now. I was able to ignore those feelings and play by myself without feeling any pity. I was able to get over embarrassment and learn a new language. 

Time went on, and I was in fifth grade. I remember my teacher calling me out in front of the entire class because the previous year I had told some students that I was moving. She walked the line, not quite calling me a liar, but implying it. That day I was picked up early by my mom. I never saw her again. We moved from our second home, a lovely blue town house where I learned many wonderful things, like how to swim, and some horrible ones, like how awful my father could truly be. 

My father wasn't an abuser like most portrayed on film and television. He never hit my mother, or beat us to the brink of death. No, his choice of weapon was his words. Sure, we were hit with a belt, but what child hasn't been? That wasn't what scarred me. Rather the fear he manifested in me by making us watch the beatings, and the words he said during them were what scarred me. 

I can't remember them now, but I remember the fear. The fear of looking at him. The fear of crying, because if I cried, I too, would be hit. If you're a child with extremely strict parents, you probably think that I'm being over-dramatic and that my experiences were nothing. I agree. I was over-dramatic, because I was a child. A child who came home to this more often than not. A child who had to watch as her brother's were humiliated in front of her, as they cried for my mother. For the pain to stop.

A child who cried for the very same things. A child who, at the smallest slight of disobedience, was punished. A young, dramatic girl, who was too kind to everyone she met. A gullible girl who believed everyone she met. That was who I was. So was I being over-dramatic? Yes. But the fear was real for me. The humiliation. The pain was definitely real.

But it wasn't all bad, and I was kind of excited to move. At this point in my life I had already moved schools four times (including the one I went to before I moved here), so it wasn't anything new. I met my best friend at this new school. It was a small school, located next to a middle school that wasn't too far from the high school. 

The way around the school was strange. I believe there was a circular part of the school, though I don't remember. I just remember it being unlike any other school I had gone to so far. I remember getting a school ID for the first time. I was so confused. But never mind that, I'm getting off track. So I met two people who changed my life at this school. One was a girl in red plaid that I looked up to in many ways. 

"She's so cool", I remember thinking. She was everything I wasn't. She was beautiful. She was a rebel. She smelled of cigarettes but she was strong with a razor tongue. I remember her telling me about her issues with her uncle, and the way others looked at her. I think she pretended to not notice the disapproving stares from teachers. We eventually stopped talking, or maybe she left the school or something. I don't remember. One day she was there, and the other, gone. 

After her, I met someone who would end up being my best friend for 6 years. Kara. I think the first time I met her was when I was biking outside. I wasn't supposed to be, but after being stuck inside all day, I needed a break. After that, I remember seeing her again at school. While I don't remember much, I remember her lending me her glasses because I couldn't see the board.

Later, I told my father that I needed glasses. He acquiesced, but said that if I was lying, I would be punished. I remember feeling angry, thinking "Why is it that my own father thinks I am a liar?". Long story short, I got glasses.

Turns out I wasn't lying. 

What a shocker....

Before I move on, there is one last person who changed my life, or rather, one last family who changed my life. Ella Foster. 

I met her when I had recently moved into the neighborhood, and we became close friends. Closer than best friends. She was like the sister I never had the chance to have. I went to their house whenever I had the chance. They were my hideout from the insanity that was my father. They gave me a home. I will always be thankful to them, even though now, they probably hate me. Can't say I blame them.


	2. No Second Chances

Going into middle school, I was excited. I had a chance to be somebody else. Somebody better. But of course, being me, I stayed exactly the same. A loser.

But this loser had two friends, so it wasn't all bad. I don't really remember my sixth grade. I do remember joining band with Kara. We both played the clarinet. We also met a girl who was interested in Witchcraft/Wicca.

Well, actually, two. One was in band, a seventh or eighth grader, and another was in our grade. Over the summer, we had explored this religion, though I can't say I remember why. I don't think sixth grade was all that important, if I'm being honest, though Kara and I did grow closer.

Oh and I went to a dance. My very first dance. I went by myself, obviously. This was also the last year my father was with us.

Oh, he didn't die or anything, no life is unfair that way and keeps the bad people alive while good people die quickly, no he just left the country. See, my parents had been having some...tensions. And my dad had gotten more volatile over the years, like I mentioned before.

Well, one day my eldest brother was taking too long in the restroom, and my father (not known for his patience), banged on the door. When my brother was still not out, he broke the door open and grabbed my brother by the neck, holding him up against the wall.

Seventh grade was the game changer. This was the year I changed my life forever.

Because this was the first year that I ever held a blade to my wrist. The first year that I did damage to myself that would forever be etched on my skin. I don't remember how I heard about self-harm. I just remember it sounding like a good option.

Relief from the pain through pain. So emo, right? The first type of self-harm that I did was scratch myself on the top of my left arm, but that did nothing and was inefficient.

So I switched to blades. I would first cut on the top of my arm, but they were gaining too much attention, so I switched to underneath my arms, on my left wrist.

I didn't trust myself to not slip up on my right so I only used my left. I don't remember how it felt the first time I cut myself, but I can tell you that it hurt. I was using razor blades, and it fucking hurt. But, it was better than anything I was feeling inside, so I took it. I took the pain.

I successfully hid my habits until ninth grade. That's when my mother discovered what I was doing to myself. We got in a fight and I would end up seeing three therapists in the coming year.

Later, I would be medicated.

I would also discover that a memory of mine was very disturbing.

That I had been molested by someone very dear to me.

I would never trust this person again. I would always be afraid. But I lived with my abuser for many years to come.

Middle school is a bit of a blur, so I'll move on.


End file.
